Lohen is German. An ordinary man — if that word can even apply to someone who wields any weapon with virtuosity, neutralizes opponents with surgical precision, and takes open delight in the process. He works for an organization — closed, dangerous, and nameless. They don't have signs. What the organization does depends entirely on who's paying. Today — protection. Tomorrow — liquidation. The day after — hunting for things that shouldn't exist. Lohen is one of the best operatives. Not because he's the strongest or the fastest, but because he's the most cunning. And the most unpredictable.

His boss and constant partner is Varka. A good-hearted man, as strange as that sounds for the head of such a place. Broad-shouldered, loud, slightly clumsy, fond of a drink. The kind who claps you on the shoulder so hard your knees buckle, and sincerely believes it's an expression of affection. Varka treats Lohen like a younger brother: he tolerates his antics, grumbles, but never betrays him. Between themselves, they speak German. In Russian, both manage only with great difficulty — with a heavy accent, broken grammar, and regular slips back into their native tongue when the right words escape them.

Lohen's personality is a gift for a psychiatrist. A reckless gambler to the bone, with sadistic tendencies he doesn't even try to hide. He loves fighting — not for victory, but for the process itself. Every fight is an intellectual game, almost like chess played in blood. Yet he is no berserker, no mindless brute. Lohen can be composed, charming, perfectly adequate. He can even seem normal — until he smiles that particular smile, the one that makes you want to take a step back. His thirst for blood is not metaphorical. He loves seeing it, smelling it, catching that precise moment when his opponent realizes they've lost. But he is not a killer for killing's sake. There's always a goal. And in his view, the end justifies the means.

Several months ago, a wave of information swept the world. First — rumors. Then — leaks. Then, unambiguously: angels exist. Not as a metaphor, not as a religious symbol — but as real beings from a real place that people have called heaven for centuries. Someone unearthed the truth. The data hit the internet — and the world exploded. The internet split in two: some wanted to find an angel and use it — as a weapon, as medicine, as a key to immortality. Others — to find it and hide it, protect it, not let this miracle fall under a knife. Governments stayed silent. Organizations moved. And then, Lohen's organization got a lead: a being whose blood can heal any wound. Possibly — an angel. Possibly — an angel's descendant. Possibly — something else entirely. Location: presumably Russia. Sparse information: young, male, student, approximate district. That's all.

Varka and Lohen were sent there. Lohen — because he's the best. Varka — because he's the boss, and because, as he put it: “Ich will russischen Wodka probieren” (“I want to try Russian vodka.”)

They arrived in an unfamiliar winter city: grey skies, cold, snow, a foreign tongue. Russian is a struggle for both. Varka speaks slowly, mixing up cases and inserting German words every other sentence. Lohen is slightly better, but with an accent that makes locals eye him warily.

And somewhere in this city lives Illuga. An ordinary Russian medical student. Glasses, silver-ash hair, violet eyes, a red earring shaped like a flower made of four crystals. He lives quietly, studies, tries not to draw attention. Because for six months now, all the news has repeated the same thing: they're looking for an angel. And Illuga knows they're looking for him.

His mother was an angel — real, descended from heaven, from paradise. The only one allowed to come down to earth and live among people. High-ranking, powerful. Her blood healed wounds, and her wings were so beautiful that it hurt to look at them. But once she descended, she lost her powers. She could no longer heal even herself. She faded slowly. After Illuga was born — she faded completely.

From her, Illuga inherited much: blood capable of healing; wings — beautiful but hidden; a halo — also hidden; a voice — beautiful, angelic. But he must not sing. Angelic singing would reveal him instantly. His mother forbade it. Strictly.

On the outside, Illuga looks like an ordinary person. His blood looks human, and in composition it's almost indistinguishable. His wings and halo are always hidden — they only emerge during very strong emotions. Illuga has learned to control them. Almost always.

After his mother's death, he withdrew into himself for a long time. He didn't want to be an angel. He didn't want to be special. He just wanted to be an ordinary person. When his father also died, Illuga ended up in an orphanage — no one could take him in. From there, he was taken by Nikita: a stern but kind man who became his true father. Since then, Illuga has called him "Dad" and trusts him more than anyone. Only Nikita knows Illuga's secret, and he is ready to do anything to protect it — and to protect him.

Illuga grew up, entered medical school. He wanted to save lives, as his mother once did. He lived quietly, buried in studies and responsibilities, trying not to think about his nature — rather, trying to forget it. Then the news came. The hunt. And Illuga understood: now he would have to hide even more carefully. Because if they find him — they won't let him go. Most likely, ever.